A Stranger Called Master

A Stranger Called Master

(Master of the Flesh
part II)

Olivia Laurel

Works by Olivia
Laurel

MASTER OF THE FLESH:

Bound by a Stranger

A Stranger Called Master

A Most Wicked Master

A Master Called Mine

This story is a work of fiction.
Names,
characters, places
and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 Olivia Laurel

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this
book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Junior Year

The textbooks and tomes drop with
an echoing thud in the deserted library.
Friday 9:45pm,
finals week.
Is no one else on this campus stressing except me? I haven’t
cracked open my textbooks all semester and now I’m paying the price. Two
papers, four exams, just shoot me.

It took a superhuman amount of
self-control to turn down all the parties tonight--one of which was an
exclusive, invite-only hot tub party at some senior’s sweet apartment. Looking
around the empty stacks of the fifth floor reference hall, I wonder if I made
the right choice.

Nope, definitely
not.
But it’s too late now. I’m resigned to slave away the rest of the
night reading dusty books, bullshitting my way through thesis statements.

Though I’d much rather be soaking
in a hot tub, there are worse places to spend your Friday night than the St.
Ignatius library, I suppose. The library is actually a thing of beauty, with
ornate chandeliers hanging from high ceilings and leather couches facing
baroque windows. It definitely has
charm,
I’ll give it
that, like it was taken straight out of
Beauty
and the Beast
or
Pride and Prejudice
.
If I had the luxury, I’d curl up on one of those couches with a book, but alas.
It is crunch time.

The faint sound of a laptop booting
up reaches my ears. So I’m not alone after all. Across the room is another
late-night trooper, flanked by towers of books and academic journals. He looks
striking, actually--from this distance, at least. I steal another glance at the
tall, ripped jock, his black shirt holding on to dear life around his biceps.
Sweet Jesus, what’s a guy like that doing
here
?
But despite his gorgeous physique, he’s wearing dark-rimmed glasses and
obviously staying in on a Friday night. He stares at the book in front of him,
running his fingers through his hair as he thinks.

I giggle, realizing how much he
looks like Superman posing as
Clark
Kent, and
he shoots a glance in my direction, the intensity of his eyes piercing me from
across the room. A tiny bell rings in my head, like
deja
vu, but the moment passes. I almost give a nervous wave, but I know that’s just
the procrastination talking. He looks back at his laptop and I turn my
attention to the matter at hand: the sympathetic portrayal of Lucifer in
Milton
’s
Paradise Lost
.

After reading the same sentence for
five minutes--the chandelier’s mood lighting does
nothing
to help my heavy eyelids--my skin prickles as if someone’s
watching me. I flick my eyes toward Mr. Studious over there, just as he looks
back down at the book in front of him. My heart breaks out into a victory dance
in my chest--so we’re going to play eye tag, are we? I feel my
cheeks burning as he almost catches
me staring.
Play it cool, Giselle
. Just because I
haven’t slept with a guy in two and a half years doesn’t mean the next guy
looking my way wants to get it on.

I sigh. Has it really been two and
a half years? A familiar heat washes over me when I think about the last time.
It was so
unreal,
sometimes I wonder if I dreamt the
whole thing. But then I remember the soreness of my ass cheeks, my skin pink
and raw from getting spanked. Later that night, I found a violet bruise on my
neck--I hadn’t even remembered him biting me, but I guess he must have.

And then of course, there was the
rose, the necklace, and the note.

My darling pet-- A pearl necklace for a
collar.
A black rose for our
darkest desire.
And a map for your (temporary) freedom.
Until we meet again,
Your
Master

For that one night, my darkest
fantasy came true. A stranger in the theater club’s haunted house possessed me
completely, made me
his
like no other
man ever did before. Since then, no one else could really compare.
College guys?
Forget it. Not with their glazed eyes, beer
breath, and limp whiskey dick. Even when they’re not drunk, well, boys nowadays
are sometimes
too
nice--asking
permission to kiss me instead of just
capturing
my lips.

I blush as I feel the sex between
my legs growing moist. I finger the pearl necklace along my collarbone.
Undoubtedly a fake, stolen from the theater club’s prop room, but it was a gift
from my Master nonetheless, a “collar” as he called it.
A
sign that for one night, I was his.

How did it start? He had tied me to
a pipe along the ceiling, letting me dangle like raw meat. His rough, calloused
hands grasped my breasts...his face buried between my thighs, his mouth
tonguing my clit...And that was just the beginning. Lying back on that chaise
and taking all of him inside me, then standing with my ass in the air letting
him flog and spank me. And finally, riding his eight inch cock until
we
both reached release...

I
scootch
closer to the edge of my wooden seat and turn to
the side, so my slit balances on the edge.
I’m tempted to slip a hand
between my legs and rock just a little bit back and forth, but I can’t. The
library isn’t brightly lit, but it’s still
lit
and the stranger across the room might glance up and see me. I shut my legs and
sit back. There’ll be enough time to play with myself later, after I finish
this paper. I’ll be half-asleep by then, but I’ll still make time for myself. I
always do.

I shake off my lust and look at
what else needs to be done. Apparently, I never bought one of the required
readings, but hopefully it’s somewhere in the library. The scraping of the
wooden chair against the carpet is deafening in the silence of the hall. I
didn’t notice him leave, but Mr. Studious is gone from his table. My heart
sinks and I chide myself for hoping our game of eye-tag would lead to something
more.
Honestly, Giselle!

The library is a labyrinth to me,
even though theoretically, I should know my way around after three years of
college.
PR3593.V3 V.1.
is
scribbled on my post-it, so I need to find the stacks labeled “PR.” I follow
the signs, but somehow get turned around because I’m back at my table. Each
floor of the library is shaped to be circular, like a half-hearted attempt to
replicate The Guggenheim Museum. A circle sounds simple enough, but I can’t
make heads or tails of the layout in my mind, because
there’s
also halls that run through the center of the circle. Though breathtaking, the
architects definitely didn’t have accessibility in mind.

When I finally reach the “PR”
stacks, the shelves are empty. An apologetic note says they’re reorganizing and
all books have been temporarily moved to the seventh floor.
Great.

The elevator is unresponsive, so I
head for the emergency staircase, which has a patina of dust on each step and
smells unsurprisingly stale and musty. A dead cockroach lies on its back in the
corner. I shudder and quicken my pace.

I freeze.

Was that--no, it couldn’t be. And
yet, I thought I heard a footstep that wasn’t my own.

I peer over the railing, down into
the center of the metal staircase. The fluorescent light flickers, but I don’t
see another soul. It was clearly just my imagination.

And even if someone
is
there, it’s not like this is my
personal library. Someone else might be studying late and using the stairs,
too.

But ever since I stopped to listen,
there hasn’t been any other sound.

As if whoever was
moving is listening, too.

Don’t
be so paranoid.
I grip the sloppily painted railing, ascend a few more
steps, heave all my weight against the metal door and emerge back into the
stacks.

The seventh floor looks like the library’s
embarrassing, dark secret. A recent addition, naked wires snake out of outlets,
while rusty pipes crisscross over the low, sloping ceiling. While the rest of
the library’s architecture resembles a cathedral, this attic looks like a
dungeon, as if any moment, Mr. Rochester’s deranged wife is going to jump out
of the stacks (sorry, all this studying has got my mind on English lit). No
windows, no computers, no chairs. Because who would ever want to sit here?
Students were probably never supposed to see this attic, but the librarians had
no choice and just needed a placeholder for the books until they’re finished
reorganizing.

After a few minutes of searching,
with no other sound but the hum of the air conditioner, I finally spot the “PR”
shelf and scan the spines for the correct call number. It’s too high for me to
reach, so I weave through the shelves once more, in search of a stool.

The
ding
of the elevator startles me. I peer into the main hallway,
only to find the doors open to an empty elevator car.
Weird.

I turn back to my quest for a
stepping ladder when
again,
I hear a muffled step ever
so slightly out of sync with my own.

Fuck this. This place gives me the
creeps and there’s no point in being a hero and staying. I break into a run for
the elevator. I don’t need the book
that
badly.

“Come on, come on,” I whisper under
my breath, as if cheering it on will make the elevator climb faster. At this
rate, I could’ve made it to the first floor by now if I’d just taken the
stairs. I give up on the elevator and run for the staircase on the other side
of the library.

This time, there’s no mistake.

Rapid footfalls thunder after me,
no longer caring that I can hear. I spare a glance behind me but my pursuer is
hidden by the stacks. My pulse spikes when I realize the stairs aren’t where I
thought they’d be.

No time to stand there in the
open--I dart between the stacks and try to think where I might’ve gotten turned
around.

My pursuer slows his pace, as well,
as if checking between the shelves. Pulse racing in my ears, I try to steady my
breath and hold perfectly still.

Who is he? What does he want? Never
in my life have I wished to see a security guard as badly as I do now. But I
hadn’t seen a guard all night. My heart pounds even louder when the realization
hits: I’m alone in a dark library with no one to hear my screams.

The footsteps have stopped. At
least, I haven’t heard anything in the last thirty seconds.

Where is he now? What’s he doing?

Instead of sticking my head past
the stacks to peek into the main aisle, I stand on my tiptoes and peer in
between the books through the shelf.

“
Lost, little girl?
”
My pursuer is
on the other side of the bookshelf, staring directly at me.

My breath catches in my throat.
Something about his voice, that line, sounds familiar. Like something I
might’ve heard in a dream.

He walks out from behind the books
and I see it’s the jock, Mr. Studious, from the table across the room.

I breathe half a sigh of relief.
But only half.
He could, after all, still be out to kill me.
He’s even larger up close. My eyes flicker to his bulging biceps, the
musculature of his chest visible through his thin shirt.

Yes, he could still very well kill
me.

“What do you want?” I stammer while
backing away to the opposite aisle.

“I think you know what I want,” he
rasps. And there again...that voice...This feels like a puzzle in a dream that
my mind is struggling to solve.

Even if I ran, he’d catch me in two
bounds. “Please, I...”

“That’s a very beautiful necklace,”
he says, never taking his intense eyes off of mine. “I would’ve thought you’d
remember who gave it to you...pet.”

I gasp. Could it be? I peer up at
him, but it’s hard to tell. That night was two and a half years ago, and I
spent half the time blindfolded and the other half in the dark. Since then,
time has made his face more and more unfocused in my memory, until I just
skimmed over specifics and thought of him as the swarthy, breathtaking god who
possessed me for an exquisitely delicious night.

“Master?”
I ask.

He responds by claiming my lips, claiming
me
. In one motion, he pushes me
against the stacks, grabs my wrists and holds them above me, and everything
comes rushing back. “It really is you,” I murmur.

“Have you missed me, my pet?” he
mumbles into the kiss.

Miss him doesn’t even cover it. I
yearned
for him every night since then,
relived every touch, every lick, every spank as I touched myself alone in my
bed.

“Oh God, yes,” I breathe, as his
lips find the erogenous zone by my earlobe. “Why didn’t you leave me your name?
Or your number?”
It’s hard to think with his tongue
against my skin, something I’ve fantasized about every night, but I need to
know. All those frustrated nights and unanswered questions are on the tip of my
tongue.

“
Shh
, not
now, pet. There’s time for that later.” He silences me with a deep kiss while
unbuttoning my blouse, excruciatingly slow, one button at a time. He cups my
breasts through my bra, eliciting a moan from me,
then
unzips my skirt.

Is this really happening? Has my
Master really found me once again?

Clad only in my bra and panties, he
turns me around to face the bookshelf. But I can’t help it--the questions are
burning inside me.

“Why did you wait so long? I tried
to find you but the theater club said they didn’t know--”

“If you speak again, pet, I’ll be
forced to punish you. Have you forgotten the rules already?” he warns.